Fear
by SuperficialSpade
Summary: His only thoughts now were grief filled words of unspoken forgiveness, wishing he hadn't been so blind towards him; wishing he hadn't let it get this far. And, deep down in his bruised and broken body, he knew he deserved this. He was supposed to be the hero, but as of now, he didn't even think he could save himself.


**Hello! Thank you so much for reading my story, I hope you all enjoy! Reviews are appreciated! I own nothing except the 'plot' of this story.**

He struggled against the bindings that held his body to the chair, the restricting feeling causing his breathing to shallow and his struggling to increase. He tried easing his hands out of the rope, seemingly to no avail. He next tried his feet, but the knot used was clearly tied by an expert; unless he could get cut out, he would have to remain trapped to the small confinements of the haggard old chair. Said chair was uncomfortable, causing him to squirm time and time again, no relief ever present. Whenever he moved his body so much as a centimeter, a long, shrill creak would echo through the freezing room. He had never liked the feeling of being bound; he much preferred being... _Free_.

He was blindfolded, his sight shrouded in a darkness that could even haunt the darkest of creatures. He tried, in a futile attempt, to rid himself of the wretched blindfold, perhaps to even move it slightly ajar as to give him even a sliver of sight. He wasn't too sure he wanted to see where he was, though. The room sent a shiver up his spine and stiffened his bones. The room smelt of rotting and decay. Of what, he couldn't be sure, but it frightened him to even know. The curious streak he possessed tormented him; grating on him in an eagerness to possess the knowledge, but his head told him that for once, perhaps it should stay a mystery.

As he licked his dry, parched lips, he then realized there wasn't a restraint on his mouth; but he didn't dare scream out for help, he knew he wasn't alone. Despite the eerie silence that seemed to be a constant in the room, he could feel eyes that bore into his body, adding to the constant dread that never quelled. Perhaps it was paranoia? After all, the room was stagnant, no movements coming from anywhere. There was not as much as a breath that his keen ears could pick up on.

Then, there was a resounding slap, and a stinging feeling that erupted from his cheek; his face welting into a scarlet color. He wasn't alone.

He struggled yet again to no avail; the bindings were tight and seemed to grow tighter the more he struggled. His desperation was slowly seeping into the atmosphere as quiet, almost inaudible noises escaped his lips.

They could try to break him; tear his spirit, shatter his soul. But they could never overthrow him; they could never win.

The ropes that made up his bindings were now chaffing uncomfortably, reddening his wrists to the point of blood; the crimson drops congealing and dripping down his fingers profusely, splashing onto the floor and staining the chilling, hardened concrete permanently. The pain residing in his wrists stung badly, but he didn't show it. No, he wouldn't ever show his pain. He'd never give whoever was behind this the satisfaction. He forced his mouth shut, refusing to make another noise to indicate his discomfort.

He was supposed to be the hero, but as of now, he didn't even think he could save himself.

Suddenly, he felt his head being forced back, a breath encasing his ear and tickling it in a way that struck fear into his body like a lightning bolt. A voice began speaking; a voice that seemed extremely familiar, but he couldn't seem to place it.

"This is for all the years I've endured. All the years I've suffered, all because of _you_." The male voice sounded disgusted, yet bizarrely calm. It was the voice of a broken person who was infinitely tired with the misgivings life had handed to him.

"I- I didn't do anything, I swear." He dared to say, livid at himself for stammering and letting his fearfulness show. It was the honest truth; at least, he thought it was.

"You see, this is the issue. It always has been. You've gone through life naïve to the suffering you've brought to me. But honestly, I'm sick of being ignored. I'm tired of being mistreated because you're an asshole, and I take the beating. But now? Now, I'm going to give you the treatment I've always endured. I feel like this is well deserved on BOTH our parts." The voice began chuckling as a nervous shiver travelled down his spine.

He swore he never intentionally hurt anyone. He never wanted anyone to get hurt because of his simpleminded actions. Though, inevitably, someone HAD been hurt by his actions, and now they were seeking a justice that he was forced to comply with.

The torturous beatings seemed to last lifetimes, each blow forcing his body to become disfigured to the point of being unrecognizable. The bindings and blindfold had long since been removed, though, before he could gather a glimpse as to who was orchestrating this seemingly unwarranted pain, blood and traitor tears clouded his vision. He shut his eyes and refused to open them. There was nothing he needed to see anymore, anyways.

And, as his body was beaten, broken, and bruised by whoever possessed the haunting voice, he himself was questioning as to whom he had ever hurt this severely. But, another thought was nagging him; he recognized the voice. Thinking of the voice was the only mental relief he got from the immense pain emanating wherever a fist or shoe met his tender skin.

Blood had begun leaking from his mouth after a swift punch to his jaw. There was a sickening crack that echoed, followed by a scream. Only after a few fleeting moments did he realize the screams were coming from his own throat. The person had broken his wrist. More and more injuries were being sustained, and he couldn't help but think of the captivating voice. And, after straining his memory, did he finally remember who the haunting voice belonged to. After all, the lilting and slightly French accent wasn't much unlike his own. Though, the softness that had once been there was replaced by stone cold hatred. He figured, with absolute certainty, that he knew who the voice was.

Thinking of the person whom the voice belonged to made his heart hurt and his soul ache. The guilt was eating through him, and he _knew_ the anger this person held was not misplaced. His only thoughts now were grief filled words of unspoken forgiveness, wishing he hadn't been so blind towards him; wishing he hadn't let it get this far. And, deep down in his bruised and broken body, he knew he deserved this.

He lay among the ropes used to hold him and the blindfold used to keep him in the dark, his body twisted into odd angles that were sure to leave many scars; death, had he been human. The person had stopped the beating at the moment, and it was then he tentatively and stupidly decided to speak up. His voice, however, was nothing more than wheezing breaths that were incredibly shallow. After an indescribable amount of strength, he managed to wheeze out one simple word before profusely coughing up crimson.

"Mattie." 


End file.
